Mama | An excerpt

from a current work in progress untitled memoir written and soon to be self published by your girl


There, bare and blushed, her face adorned with wide brimmed glasses and laugh lines framed by a curtain fringe of self trimmed bangs. Her hair grew thick waves of a summer stained mane past speckled shoulders to where her slender hands braced the curve of her lower back. A cascade of blonde dancing in the valley of her bended spine graced silhouettes of flowering pregnancies. She clothed herself in dresses that flowed in her sway of chubby babies she wore on her hip and skimmed the floor of where toddlers stood pulling at her legs. One arm swaddled a naked babe cinched at her waist, the other grazed almond shaped nails atop the head of tangled hair girl hugging at her knees.


She was perennial Spring with horizons of summer hues, a season celebrated by the ritual of little hands plucking sunbathed oranges from a backyard tree. As towels covered linoleum floor and bare legs dangled from the countertop, she stood in the cross breeze of open kitchen windows, halving warmed citrus, handing them over to eager children taking turns filling a pitcher. Ambrosia stained corners of bowtie lips drip sap onto polyester frills of bathing suits that insisted be worn for all occasions. With the sink awash with the rinds of oranges, children hover reaching toes for the ground as they scale the sides of cabinets leaving sticky fingerprint marks of her behind. 


In the stillness of post breakfast and school drop-offs, iridescent ruby hummingbirds hovered in casted light filtering through the stain glass nectar she hung for them to indulge in on the trusses of the backyard porch. On neighboring beams she mounted feeders brimmed with seeds intended for sparrows. She observed the plump bodies of mourning doves loiter the perches of the wooden feeders teetering in the disproportionate weight hoping to drain the entirety of its contents onto the miscellaneous patch of growth below. When the doves would finally fly back to their places on telephone wires echoing throaty coos of satisfaction, she would drift through the opened sliding glass doors  with a bag of bird seed under her arm to fill, once more, the feeders for the sparrows.